


Darling Dear, What Have You Done?

by ScarletKilometers



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Guzma says "Fuck" a lot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Problems Like FUCK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-24 15:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletKilometers/pseuds/ScarletKilometers
Summary: "Team Skull was born outta this old group that once formed around one of the old kahunas. The whole thing fell apart after we got smacked down by the wrath of the tapu!"In which the now-former kahuna of Ula'Ula goes recruiting for a science project, deities are provoked, mistakes are madein spades,and absolutely everyone has terrible parents. Features multiple accounts of teenaged dirtbags, dubiously-reliable narrators, and screaming psychological breakdowns.





	Darling Dear, What Have You Done?

**Author's Note:**

> _Darling dear, what have you done? Your clothes are torn, you makeup runs..._  
>  -The Decemberists, _The Tain, part V_

Guzma: Assess Damages

Your name is Guzma and you fucked up real bad.

It was only a matter of time wasn’t it? You’re pretty sure everyone else was everyone else was expecting it and fucking certain they’re relieved that it finally did. _Ah, finally, that shitty kid’s flipped his lid and we don’t have to pretend like he’s people anymore, always knew he’d go bad in the end…_ Can’t be you’re the first, can’t be you’re the first asshole who’s ever thought about letting loose on the jackasses who deserve it, really letting ‘em have it. Bet you everyone has. Only you’re the dumbass that’s too fucked in the head to keep inside inside like all the good kids. _You don’t see anyone **else** wigging out over shit like this, **do you boy?**_

It’s been a bad night for your brain. Not that the last few months have been much to write home about. Write anywhere, fuck. You didn’t think it’d boil over like this. You didn’t think it’d happen this fast, fuck. Zero to Afterschool Special in under twenty minutes, you’ve probably set some kind of record for unnecessary whackjob flip-outs. _Nice work, you dumb motherfucker._

It’s not that it doesn’t suit you. It’d have to at this point, wouldn’t it? It’s just that you wish it had been a bit different. You wanted a conflagration, you didn’t want _this._ _You stupid ass, you knew it was gonna go down like this eventually. You wreck every decent thing you touch and that’s right, isn’t it? You’ll lay waste to everything you’ll ever have, damn right you will…_

*

Past Guzma: Short-Circuit

Why the hell would you do that? You’re perched on the counter in the kahuna’s kitchen drumming your heels on the cabinets while his grandson watches T.V and everything’s fine, fucking peachy, except for that thing where you’re half-sure the whole world’s laughing at you and whole-sure you deserve it. But that’s normal, it’s boring, it’s _fucking fine._ So what if your whole life’s just been a joke with a shitty punchline. So what if everything you’ve worked for has just been a giant waste of effort. _Everything’s fucking fine._

 You reach the obvious conclusion to your personal dilemma when the old man comes in. Tells you off for sitting on the furniture. You glare past him and don’t move. He says “ _Guzma,”_ more firmly and you slide down. Glare at your shoes. Then, the old man smiles starts in on _You’ve improved so much_ and _I expect you tool improve even more in the future_ and _I hope you’ll continue to make an effort in training tomorrow_ and it sticks in your pan and _sizzles_ , how fake he sounds.

Effort, hell. You’re nearly 18, your time running thin and still you have fuck-all to show for yourself. If he meant half of what he says it’d have already won you something. You’re working as hard as anyone else he’s taken on and you’d bet serious money, if you had it, on you being better than any three of those idiots put together and what has it earned you? From the old man? From anyone? And still everyone’s going _Sit, Guzma! Stay, Guzma! Shut up and behave, stay in line and maybe you might actually get what you want this time or this time or this time..._. Assholes, they never wanted to let you have a captaincy or anything at all, but they just keep stringing this thing out because at least this way you’re _quiet_ , this way you’re not in the way of anyone who _matters_ and you’re on your short leash… So, fuck them. Fuck their lies and their platitudes and fuck each and every one of them personally who doesn’t have the decency to hate you in the open where you can do something about it.

If you could have said any of that things might be different, because what you say instead is “ _How fuckin’ dumb do you think I am?”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“You think you can just hand me a shit sandwich and think I won’t notice the crap you’re giving me?”_ You turn on him and slam your hand on the counter. “No _, fuck_ you. I ain’t that stupid. Don’t lie to me. You _hate_ me.”

He looks at you like you’re some sad, broken thing he wants to fix and _fuck that too._ “I certainly do not. Now, settle down and I will help you with—"

You grab the nearest thing, which happens to be a skillet, clean but heavy, and chuck it. It misses the kahuna’s head by less than an inch.

The skillet bangs off the table behind him and the kid yelps and scrambles out of the way. The sound hangs in the air and sticks somewhere under your skin. But the old man’s really looking at you now, enough to really hate what’s there.

 _“Young man,”_ he says severely, “I understand you’ve struggled with your behavior in the past, but if you cannot straighten yourself out we will not be continuing this apprenticeship.” The little kid draws near, all nervous. Not nervous enough if he’s coming closer. “However, if you stop at once and apologize I will be willing to overlook this.”

“Bullshit. Just fucking kick me out. Sweep it under the rug and get _rid_ of me, _isn’t that what you fucking want?”_

“Tutu..?” The kid reaches out like he thinks he’s got any sway over how this clusterfuck is gonna play out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

 _“Enough.”_ He brushes the kid aside. The kahuna barely touches him, but he runs out sobbing anyway. _Crybaby._

You grab another pan and swing as the kid goes tearing out of the room. Some vital little support bolt in your brain has sprung loose all on its own, and if you can’t take something apart this second you’re going to fall apart. The old man sidesteps and when you swing again he catches your arm and twists the pan out of your hand. You scramble back and lunge back in punching wildly. You don’t care what happens next, you don’t care, so long as you can’t take it back. You want this to be permanent. You might have lost your mind completely. He catches your hands and wrenches them behind your back, you can’t shake him off, and whatever scrap of sense you have left disintegrates into raw panic.

 _Shit shit **shit**_ _you’re trapped fuck can’t hands fuck **trapped**._ You scream and thrash like a hooked fish. _Shit. Shit._ You kick out at nothing and when you manage to wrench arm hand free you drive your elbow straight into the old man’s stomach. Your other hand breaks free and you swing at his head again and this time it connects. Comes back wet. You yelp, scramble back, stare dumbly at the blood still pouring out of the kahuna’s freshly broken nose.

The silence stretches just long enough for your brain to catch up with your body and you bolt.

*

You ran out of steam near the outskirts of Hau’oli and threw up into some bushes the second your feet stopped moving. Now you’re holed up in the bathroom with your forehead pressed against the mirror trying to get your head on straight. Your pulse is deafening in your skull and it’s not you. You can feel every cell of blood crawling in your veins and it’s not you. Your teeth chatter double staccato and that’s not you either. The loose threads on your shirt come in super high-definition and they all look fake as shit _. Shit. Shit. **Shit.**_

You fumble at the tap, your arms might be rubber, might be balloon strings except for the part where you can find every cell of your skin by touch, _what the fuck is wrong with you?!_ You splash cold water on your face and it does nothing. You claw at your scalp and dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. Nothing. You scream and fling yourself at the opposite wall and it reaches you, just a little. A dull ache blooming where your forehead met with the brickwork. _Good._ You slam into the wall a second-third-fourth-fifth time, little by little beating the senses back into your body. By the time you’re done there’s blood smudged on the shitty latex paint and everything still sort of sucks, but you don’t want to tear out of your own skin anymore and you only feel like 75% garbage by weight. It’s enough to be going on with. You pay for an overnight room and try to stop shivering long enough to pass out.

You wake up with a ripping headache and a persistent desire to be anywhere else. Golisopod got out of his pokeball while you slept and draped himself over you like a comforter, except pointy and chitinous and at least 200 pounds heavier than any blanket strictly needs to be. You bet you look like shit. Too bad you’re not braving your reflection to find out! You peel yourself out of the mess of claws and legs and dig the heels of you hands into your eyes till you’re seeing spots again. _Fuck._

You give your dumb bug a good thump on the shell and move off to shower. When you turn the spray on everything is a little to the left of itself, still. The sound of the water splashing off the tiles redoubles and sticks in your skull somewhere behind your eyes. Everything’s gone sideways and you can’t even start at figuring what you’ll do next, not with your brain all unscrewed. You suck water from the showerhead until you feel a bit steadier on your feet and turn the tap to freezing.

You dress in the clothes you slept in because you _(stupid)_ left your bag at the kahuna’s. Might be you can sneak back and get it. Probably not, anyone who was around for last night will be looking for you and there isn’t really any backway other than “straight off a cliff,” so no. Not now. Everything’s probably been thrown out by now anyway.

Golisopod’s been nuzzling at the back of your head and making concerned chittering noises. Feelers poke the back of your neck, sharp but not quite painful. You’re starting to feel halfway like a real person again and not a bodysnatcher who hasn’t figured out the console yet, so you give your murderbug a pat and return him to his ball. When you order cocoa and a muffin from the café the noises that come out of your mouth are a truly impressive facsimile of human language.

What you need now is someplace you can lay low and get your shit together without all the baggage. You chew mechanically through your breakfast, and your gaze drifts between the doors and the big windows that don’t open while you mentally check through people who might help you. Nobody on this island, which wipes out half of what was already a short list. Not him. Not her either. Fuck, didn’t she go to Johto? Definitely not him… You look up on reflex when you hear the door swish open and what you see freezes all the blood in your veins. _Oh hell **oh fuck…**_

“Boy,” Your dad says as he approaches your table, “I heard about what happened with you and the Kahuna. Son, I really thought you were past all this…”

_He’s still talking, but it’s all just noise. You’re way, **way,** long gone. Drifting somewhere behind yourself and miles above, tethered by balloon strings to this thing that isn’t you. Up here there’s no wind, no sun no clouds no nothing. Have the lights always been this bright?_

“…Can’t believe you would do something like this, after we finally thought we could trust you enough to live away from home…”

_How long has he been talking? You don’t know. Time goes sideways when you look at it too hard. You lose track of the weeks, you lose track of yourself. But that’s just life, isn’t it? Your memory was never good for shit anyway…_

“…could you be so stupid? Do you think it’s _cute?_ Do you think it’s _funny_ to fuck things up with everyone who’ll ever be decent enough to give you a chance?…”

_No. No. No. No No No No No **No No No No**. You’re not here. He’s not there. You’re not anywhere anymore, not anything. Not a person, just dressed like one. There is no you like this, just this stupid fucking sack of meat and why won’t it move? **What’s wrong with it?**_

“…Have to do to get this through your head? _Guzma, are you even listening? **Fucking answer me!”**_

You stand up. You’re coming down, little by numb little. Everything feels closer, sharper, realer. You walk towards him and it’s like you’re moving through syrup, everything’s so slow. Heh, look at that, he’s still going, all _You’re coming home this minute_ and _We’re going to fucking set you straight_ like any of it fucking matters now. Like this is anything like a surrender.

You grab an empty chair and swing.

It makes a satisfying crack against his side as he staggers against the table. You swing it around again and knock him flat on the floor. All the strings in your brain are cut, you scream-fuck-knows-what and keep hitting ‘till the cheap wood breaks in your hands. Everything’s still gooey and fakey-bright, nothing much seems real except what you’re doing now. Which is how you manage not to notice the crowd circling in on you until one of them breaks in and tries to tackle you.

 Tries, because you’ve got fuck-knows how much height on her and she’s all toothpicks. Still, 95 pounds of screaming barbie doll straight to the chest isn’t nothing, and you stagger back a few steps before you manage to throw her off. At any rate, she’s broken the suction in your brain, so now you turn towards the rest of your audience. You’re a monster, you see it burned laser-bright into their faces. You’re too fucked in the head to be a real person. You ruin everything, you are the act of ruining and that’s right, isn’t it? Goddamn straight.

 You pick up a table, lob it at your crowd and watch them scatter like fucking pool balls. You charge after the nearest person and get yanked back by two pairs of hands. The guy scrambles away while you kick yourself out and tear out of the Pokemon Center at a full-tilt pants-pissing sprint. You don’t slow down till you reach the marina and by that point you are completely, unholy exhausted. You ache all over and your legs are shaking so bad someone might’ve replaced your knees with jello. You pick at your sweat-soaked shirt; You probably look disgusting. _Fuck._ You crumple over the barricade and resolutely do not throw up for the second time in less than ten hours.

Well, you always figured you were going to go crazy eventually. At least you got to do it in style. You’ve still got to get out of here, and you won’t be using your ride pager, because it’s in the bag that you lost because you didn’t think to pack ahead when you _lost your goddamn mind!_ You’ve lost everything except your pokeballs, your Z-ring, and your savings. Yes, in this moment, you, Guzma, are only 95% dumbass by weight because you didn’t leave all your money in a backpack that can be rifled through or thrown out the second you take your eyes off it. You may actually be a genius, but you doubt it.

Still, it’s not a lot. It won’t be enough to sleep indoors _and_ feed your pokemon if you get a motel, and you’ve done enough sleeping _outdoors_ for one lifetime, thanks. So that means convincing somebody to let you stay with them, at least for now. Who’d be crazy enough to take in someone as crazy as you?

You know someone. She’s crazy, no doubt about it. Anyone who’s been friends with you this long and hasn’t managed to hate you would _have_ to be crazy. But that just means she gets it. And she really cares about people, so you’re pretty sure she’s the good kind of crazy. Alright. You have something like a plan, and maybe you can even stick to it. _Get going, Guzma, and see if you can’t fuck it up._

There are payphones in the ferry terminal. You find an empty one and make your call.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for tuning in to Scarlet's Angst-Riddled Emotional Disaster Hour! Today's words of the day are "Depersonalization" and "Meltdown Fistfights"


End file.
